


Olam Habah

by moviescriptendings



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, Truth or Consequences - Freeform, episode coda, post-somalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moviescriptendings/pseuds/moviescriptendings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wakes up in a hospital bed, alive and aching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olam Habah

She wakes up in a hospital bed, alive and aching.

It takes a long moment to get her bearings, because her head feels heavy and warm and her muscles are lax, uncooperative. She takes in her surroundings without moving, from the IV in her arm and the steady beeping coming from a monitor behind her head to the quiet rustle of the gown she's wearing against starched white sheets. She feels vaguely uncomfortable, as if whatever she has been given to ward off three months of Saleem Ulman has begun to wear off.

Someone knocks at the door and then enters without word- a nurse brandishing a machine on wheels. The nurse murmurs comforts as she feels her arm being lifted, blood pressure taken; a thermometer is gently pressed against the slope of her forehead. When the cuff from her arm is removed it jostles her ribs and she bites back a groan. Her nurse leans over her, injects something into the IV site on her forearm, and all at once her senses are flooded with warmth and calm. Her head lolls to the side. There is a slumped figure on the chair next to her bed, and she registers the figure's identity through instinct more than a name. All at once: a shoulder brushed against hers, long fingers clamped over her hip, _couldn't live without you, I guess._

Sleep claims her.

///

One night, memories sneak through the wall her intravenous opiates have built for her and she wakes with a scream in her throat. In seconds, the figure from the chair _(Tony. Why are you here?)_ leans over from his perch; reaches out and takes her hand. She recoils from his touch on instinct alone, and the action kicks up another wave of pain. She knows she's in a hospital room, knows it's her former partner grasping her fingers, knows the horror is over, but all she can feel is a dirt floor and the hatred of broken men. She doesn't realize she's gasping until something inside her sends out the alarm that she's not getting enough oxygen. "I- can't..."

"I'll get a nurse." His voice is steady, a beacon.

"No," she says, her voice sharp, panicked. "Don't leave me. Please- don't let go." Maybe if she were coherent enough to understand the scope of what she was asking, and _who_ she was asking, she'd recant or at least tone down the desperation in her voice. But as it stands, she can blame the drugs in her system for her inability to filter the desperate need she now feels, the terror of being left alone again. She isn't so far gone that she can forget gunshots in her living room, the sharp twist of guilt and blame, but no matter what damage he's caused her he's still the first thing she saw when the bag came off her head.

After a moment's hesitation, she feels the bed jostle as he climbs around her, settles next to her. The bed suddenly feels miniscule with his form occupying the majority of the mattress, and he barely fits on his side pressed against her. She lays on her back because when most of your ribs are broken or shattered there isn't a lot of option when it comes to position, and he somehow makes himself fit. His hand squeezes hers in the dark and she exhales, focusing on the warmth of him next to her and the sound of her heartbeat on a machine, slowly settling back to a normal rhythm. As Tony's breath deepens with approaching sleep, she lets the steady rise and fall of his chest send her back to unconciousness, peaceful and void of dreams.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's been something like four years and I'm still not over Somalia. This is still my favorite part of their relationship and I'll never forgive the writers for not exploring this part of Ziva's life with the respect and attention it deserved. So there's that. 
> 
> This has been sitting on my phone since I wrote it out while (SHOCK) laying in a hospital bed. There's more to it but I don't know if I'll ever revisit it properly, so here it is.


End file.
